Page 2 of Sack

Colt held up a hand. “If you want to stay friends, that’s info I don’t want to know.”

“Not even if it involves a hot blonde with an Australian accent?”

“Especially if it involves a hot blonde with an Australian accent.”

“You know what they say about all work and no play.”

Colt leaned over and picked up his helmet, smacking the silver logo on the side. “I play every damn day. Just lucky for me, I get paid for it.”

“Colt. Linc. You’re up.”

Looking sharp, Colt jogged over to Cress, Linc following close behind.

He handed them each an iPad. “I want you two to work on the new plays we’ll be adding to the lineup. Get the mechanics down before you practice with the team.”

Colt scanned the three new plays. He was confident, with a few run-throughs, he and Linc could execute them flawlessly.

He tossed the pad on the bench, picked up a ball, and signaled to Linc. “Let’s do this.”

They jogged to the middle of the field, the rest of the team watching as they got into formation.

He called out the snap count. “Black thirty-three. Black thirty-three. Hut. Hut.”

Linc took off running.

Colt backed up three steps and waited for a beat. Pulling back his arm, he snapped it forward, releasing the ball with a flick of his wrist, and watched it soar.

Down the field, Linc pivoted. His arms went up. He jumped. And made the catch.

“Yes.” Colt cocked his elbow and fist-pumped the air.

Coach blew the whistle and shouted, “Again.”

They did it again.

And again.

And again.

In the locker room a few hours later, Colt peeled out of his sweaty practice gear. His shoulder was sore. He’d need to hit the ice bath before he went home. It sucked getting old. Not that thirty-two was over the hill, but he knew his NFL years were numbered.

Which made achieving his goal all the more crucial.

Colt wasn’t as worried about retirement as some pros were, wondering what they’d do next. He had Colt’s Kids to focus on—the non-profit he’d started a few years ago to help raise awareness and give support to the victims of child abuse. Up until then, his contribution had mostly been his money and celebrity—his face and name the driving force for donations. But maybe with more free time, he could grow his charity to a national level and help more communities than just the local ones.

“You guys see the new pub that opened down the street?”

Colt turned at Oz’s question to find him standing in front of his locker, one towel wrapped around his waist, another he used to scrub at his hair. When finished, he tossed his head, and the long strands—honey brown when wet but would lighten to a dark blond—parted to curtain his face.

“Always thinking with your stomach.” Linc, freshly showered, sauntered to his locker.

“Better than thinking with my dick.” Oz scooped his hair, tying it into a man bun.

“That’s Mr. Dick to you.”

Oz turned, placing his hands on his hips. “Please tell me that’s not what you call it.”

Linc stepped into his jeans, hiking them over his hips. “What? Yours doesn’t have a name?”

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